


Headache

by captain_cUmCuM



Series: Mandy Writes Shit [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Blood, Death, Guns, M/M, Needles, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_cUmCuM/pseuds/captain_cUmCuM
Summary: The beginning part of a zombie au!tw needles, tw blood, tw death, tw poisoning
Series: Mandy Writes Shit [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781719
Kudos: 6





	Headache

This water...Tastes funny.

To be frank, Peter was lucky to have been given it by the prison guard who sometimes visited him here in his cell. Sometimes he'd bring a juice box; grape juice. His least favourite kind of juice. Sometimes, if he stuck out his bottom lip and said please angelicly, he'd share his lunch with him too.

He started packing him a ham sandwich with no crusts, just how he liked it, but then Mr Osborn would come down in a flurry, angry as can be and yell at the kind guard.

Peter always felt bad afterwards.

Things have been crazy all around the world as of late, no one seems to know what is going to happen next and no one in charge is doing anything. They say they are, they say they'll fix everything, they say everything will be back to normal in no time, and then months go by until they're heard from again. Bringing another promise to their nation, fingers crossed behind their backs, that everything is going to be just fine.

Oscorp had had enough of the lies. They teamed up with Alchemax and recruited a bunch of people from across the nation as volunteers in a project that was actually going to help.

That was a year ago.

It had started out with 20 people, going through a series of mental and physical tests. Sometimes they'd ask you to jump on one foot, rub your stomach, pat your head, and sing the national anthem in latin. While, some days they'd hook you up to a big machine with wires and numbers and ask you simple questions. Take a blood sample, give a shot, and then it was back to the cell.

That was six months ago.

Then it was 10 volunteers and the circus acts went away, so did the machines. A nice lady doctor named 'Ms Natasha' would come in, fiery red hair neat behind her head, and she'd ask questions.

'How was your day?'

'What did you have for lunch?'

Stuff like that. Take a blood sample, give a shot, and then back to the cell.

That was four months ago.

Then it was 2 volunteers. Peter wondered what happened to the rest of them. He swore he could hear them shuffling around at night, but when he asked the guard he said he was just imagining things.

Funny how imaginations can be so real.

The tests were different.

Instead of Ms Natasha asking questions that made Peter smile, she was mean. Her hair fell down to her shoulders instead of tied behind her head. She didn't wear her grey coat and slacks anymore. She wore the same suit the guards wore, she even had a gun. She didn't ask any questions, she just told Peter to sit and to watch. And he did.

He watched an old 1940s TV set broadcast static on surround sound, sitting in the cold metal folding chair in a pair of dusty old scrubs. Wires hooked up monitoring his brain activity. Then they took a blood sample, gave him a shot, and sent him back to the cell.

That was a month ago.

Now Peter was the only volunteer left. He didn't have anymore visits or tests, just Ms Natasha coming in every few hours like clockwork to take his blood and give him the same, murky grey-ish blue shot. He wasn't given food or drink, but he had learned not to need it. There was no entertainment, save for talking with the guard, but he adapted. Now he could sit on his hard twin-bed and stare at the glass walls of his cell for hours.

Looking at the empty beds of the people who used to be his friends, who used to have families. They said they were sent home, that they weren't what the organisation was looking for, Peter knows it isn't true.

Like when the president says 'Everything Is Under Control' a blatant lie to keep peace within the populous. Some would say it was for the greater good, but Peter disagrees.

He missed Laura, a nice lady who's cell was across from him. Missed Morgan, a little girl who was kept downstairs. They didn't make it to the final 10. He watched.

They didn't think he was awake but he saw the guards come in, drag Laura by the hair behind a guard who had Morgan, out into the courtyard. He didn't know much after that but he heard the gunshots.

He knew they weren't safe and sound like Mr Osborn said they were.

He knew it was just a matter of time until he was next.

~~_**Alpha** _ ~~

They weren't telling him something, he knows it. Ms Natasha says he smart like that. They weren't telling him why he gets headaches randomly, they weren't telling him why the halls smelled like sulfur and decomposition. They didn't tell him why the nice guard was gone. They just told him it was time for his shot.

He wanted to break out of the prison, Ms Natasha says he wouldn't last a day without his shots. But the shits don't seem to be doing what they say they're doing; keeping him safe.

He feels less safe getting them and not knowing why.

He feels less safe at night from the scratching at the walls and windows and the groaning he hears in the upper levels of the building.

He feels less safe when he sees people in scrubs, covered in blood, wondering through his wing of the building.

The whole floor smells like death.

But they keep giving the shots.

Taking his blood.

He can't even think right now. His head is pounding again, a headache bursting, rattling, sending his vision spinning. He can hardly breathe, he's too hot.

Everything feels--feels wrong.

He sees Ms Natasha standing outside his door, frowning.

His heart feels like it's stopped beating, he can't move, he can't do anything.

He looks down to the cup of water in his hands, half empty and mocking him, and then his body falls limp. His back hitting the floor with a thunk.

This water...Tastes funny.


End file.
